Horcruxes and Prophocies
by Veritaserum Fixes All
Summary: The trio are faced with a new darker world where the threat of Voldemort is constant. Now with Hogwarts set up as a hospital for fallen soldiers, and jobs as official ministry aurors, they must brave something they have yet to brave. Growing up.


Chapter 1

Three black clad figures sat huddled together in an empty corner of the Hogs Head, each gripping the remnants of their Butterbeers tightly in their sweaty hands. Ron flicked his eyes from the corner in which he was putting all the effort of attention into, to the dark mark that glared up at him from his own skin. Though Madame Pomfrey had promised profusely that she could remove the image from his skin in an instant, the very idea that he, Ronald Weasley, was sporting a mark to signify that he was somehow associated with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named made the very flesh that showcased the cursed mark crawl. Sometimes associating with a certain person can reap good benefits, such as tennis shoes half off, if you've befriended a clerk, or an envelope containing crucial confidential information appearing disguised as your morning newspaper, if you befriended a member of the CIA, but just as Ronald assumed, associating with Lord Voldemort could not get him a nice pair of shoes, or a crucial file, it could only bring new awful dark options into his already miserable life.

Deciding that it was about time they finish the last swallows of Butterbeer in their glasses and head out into the night that was as wicked and cold as the people that they were mimicking (_It's not me, it's not me, it's who I'm pretending to be!_ Ronald had to keep reminding himself) he finally looked up into the faces of his companions and saw that they looked just as hopelessly lost as he felt.

Hermione had spent countless nights that week, and all that very month, alert, awake, and vigil guarding the last Horcrux from dusk to dawn. Guarding it that is, until they figured out a safe way to expel Voldermort's soul from it in a way that would not harm the very thing itself. With each passing day Hermione worried more and more that it couldn't be done, and she couldn't think of _anything _that could be worse than having to terminate…the….the last place that Voldemort had laid down his soul. Heavy bags seemed to drag down the once beautiful eyes that had barely been able to contain the wisdom of the person that owned them. Her hair that had always seemed unruly had grown borderline out of control, so that it seemed a mane, but Hermione no longer contained the charisma to even attempt a feeble roar of lioness-ism.

Tears were now running silently from her bloodshot eyes into the midnight black cloak that she didn't even own, but was wearing despite the fact. Hermione and Ron's eyes met, and they shared a meaningful look, each child's face set solemnly. Hermione wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, her robes stretching a bit, exposing her very own dark mark, in all it's grim splendor, for a fraction of a second. The wiping away of tears, like many things, can signify a number of different events. One can wipe away ones tears to clear up space for new ones to occupy, or one can be simply over their sadness, or one may even wipe away tears annoyed at the fact that breaking out in tears has interrupted their onion slicing, but Ron knew that Hermione wiping away tears was signifying that she wanted to act strong, and that though she was scared she was determined as well, and this almost made Ron smile despite himself.

Harry finally noticing that his companions had drained their glasses, quickly followed suit, and looked at each of his friends sadly. "Are you sure you want to do this still?" he asked in a low rasp of a whisper. Ron and Hermione shared another meaningful look between one another and both nodded their hooded heads simultaneously.

"Harry, you know that we want to help you in any, and everyway we can," Hermione stated mutely, in a matter-of-fact way. Ron agreed hurriedly, rose promptly to match the actions of his only friends, and swept into the dark cloak of night, a night that would soon appear much, much darker. Chapter II 

Playing dress up can be an amusing game filled with adventure, romance, loss, and high heeled shoes, but dress up is a game that can also challenge ones pride, and leave one with deep scars of regret. Sometimes, it can be because you dressed up like a fairy princess when you wrongly assumed that the house was empty, only to wake up an hour later laying on the floor of your sister's bureau, with her waving incriminating pictures in your face. Or you could have received a super man costume at Christmas time, put it on with glee, and ran around the house in it screaming at the top of your lungs that you were, indeed, Super Man, until the theory crossed your brain to jump out of the window in a valiant attempt at flight. As you can see dress up can be a very dangerous ordeal indeed, and it is not ever acceptable to give a young and impressionable child a Super Man costume.

That is why while Hermione, Ron, and Harry made their way down the silent empty street in silence, each contemplated the danger that they were in. A full moon sparkled brilliantly above the deserted town of Hogsmede, reflecting off windows onto the faces of the children as they walked by. Ron shuddered with dark thoughts of what they were about to do, and slipped his hand into Hermione's, hoping her warmth would chase away the cold thoughts that had frozen over his brain. Hermione smiled gently, but her smile seemed to melt of her face all at once, as if Ron's cold thoughts and hers had created an avalanche. She removed her hand from his discreetly, and whispered in a voice so low that the unbearable silence of the night almost swallowed it up, "Ron, _you_ are Vincent Bulstrode, and _I _am your sister!" Ron knew that she was right, that a sister and a brother snuggling close together and holding hands while strolling down the streets of Hogdmede would not be very convincing, especially the kind of siblings that the Bulstrodes were, but he could not help feeling slightly dejected. Maybe it is that small difference between girls and boys, that one letter, Y, that makes their thought processes so different, but while Ron was scraping his footprints from the snow with a gigantic pout, Hermione's insides were burning with passion. Often one finds that when one can not have something they want it more than they ever have before.

It may have been the slight change in breeze, or the sudden eclipse of the moon, or maybe even the fact that a twig had been snapped underneath a careless boot, but all of a sudden the trio stopped and sensed that something wicked was near. All of sudden everything that had ever felt right, everything that was within their reach of knowledge seemed to disappear, and just as suddenly something more dreadful took it's place. Something that the children could barely reach their finger tips around, because it was so wicked. The world had stopped spinning for a fraction of a second. All existence seemed to hush in fear. Believe me, all existence was scared as Hell, and started the world spinning again faster than before in an attempt at escape. And suddenly Hogsmede was no longer empty.

All at once the streets became filled with black cloaked figures, and soon all of Voldemorts followers had come to the call their master had put out, just at the time that Malfoy said they would have. Harry dared to share a long look with his friends before quickly rushing to occupy the gap in the circle that would have been his, had his name really been Severus Snape. Considering the fact that Ron and Hermione were both supposed to be Bulstrodes they stood beside each other in their designated spots, each one praying silently that Voldemort would not be able to smell the imposters lurking in the circle of his true followers. Then the feeling of the world stopping it's rotation happened again, and with a overly showy pop Voldemort made his grand entrance.

He stared at the silent circle of followers before him behind eyes hidden beneath shadow from a nearby lamp. Hermione hoped that he would not move into the pool of light to reflect the sickening shell that held nothing now, but a fragment of a soul. She had to fight the voice screaming in her head that she needed the warmth of Ron's fingers laced through hers. After a particularly sinister feeling laps of silence Voldemort shouted at them his face contorted with rage.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Are you waiting for me to congratulate you on a job well done? Pat you each on the top of the head as if you were a little puppy that just went 'wee-wee' outside? Hmmm?" He stared daggers at a few of the circle's occupants. Knowing that Snape was one of Voldemort's prized death eaters, Harry bravely dared speech, "Please, Master, For those of us that are not disobeying, what have these fools done?"

"Fools?" Voldemort bellowed. "Why, they're more than fools they're unfaithful little gutter rats, and they no longer have a place in my care." With that said, Voldemort drew his wand briskly, and shot a wave of green light at one of his many followers. The death eater crumbled, and was nothing more now than a tangle of black robes. "Crabbe. Crabbe was supposed to be one of the many watching, and guarding the last Horcrux. THE LAST BIT OF MY BLOODY SOUL!" He sneered at the fallen body, and then started walking slowly toward Ron and Hermione. Ron's face was set grimly, he knew that if the Dark Lord sensed weakness he would terminate him immediately. Hermione also knew this and that is why all of her self control at the moment, was trying to hold back the shuddering tingle that was about to go up her spine. _Please no. Not right now! Please no. Not right now! Please NO!_ she screeched inside the confides of her subconscious in vain. Beside him, Hermione shook all over as if she were being electrocuted by an invisible wire, and then stopped, her eyes downcast praying silently that Voldemort had not noticed. He had.

"Ms. Bulstrode, are we shaking out of fear? Do we have something to confess to our Dark Lord?" Voldemort said coldly, knowing full well, that Ms. Bulstrode was already in gigantic trouble with him. Hermione did the only thing she could think of. Slowly she crept down into a deep bow all the way on her knees. She was gulping down the bile of regret, as she felt like a horrible disgusting worm, bowing to evil, submitting like she was. "No my…my…lord," she whispered sadly, making Ron want to rip of his cloak and strangle Voldemort with his very hands.

"_No my lord,_" he mocked her. "Confess your sins you miserable ingrate."

"I am sorry, my lord, for any trouble I have caused you." Hermione said in another low whisper. She wanted to be home now, away from this horrible spying operation, safe and at home with Ronald's arms wrapped around her tightly. Nothing else was warmer, and nothing else was home except for his arms.

"LIAR!" Voldemort bellowed again. Instead of a flash of green light, when he brandished his wand there came a thin silver vapor that soon seemed to grow solid. When he was perfectly happy with the size and shape of the thing, it became obvious it was some sort of sword he had conjured. He thrust it deep into Hermione, and she left out one high pitch wail that soon vanished into nothing but a sick low gurgling sound. Ron and Harry were on edge, but they knew now, that for Hermione's sake they must not break the trust factor between them and Voldemort, meaning that they could not show themselves for fear that they too might be harmed, and then they would all die. The situation seemed quite hopeless, but after a few more minutes of Voldemort babbling about how precious this last Horcrux really was, he disapperated with a pop, and left the now thinning circle of black cloaked people. Once all of the others had gone, Harry and Ron threw off their cloaks and fell beside Hermione.

"Hermione," Harry shouted helplessly. As we all know shouting never helps a situation, and Hermione being a firm believer in this shoved her hand over Harry's mouth.

"Shut up you," she said sounding as lighthearted as she could, though her voice was nothing more than a weak rasp.

"'Mione," Ron cried happily at the fact that his greatest friend and love was still alive, if only just. He laced both her hands thru his and sat with her, as Harry silently left to go to retrieve some ministry help.

"Ron I just want you to know-" she tried to say feebly before he covered her lips with one long finger.

"Quiet 'Mione they'll come get to us soon enough." And as the sun rose high above the mountains, and the two old friends sat deeply immersed in each other, somewhere, far away, something terrible was occurring.

Chapter 3 

"So Wormtail I pulled it off?" Voldemort stated more than questioned to his ward who was currently shining the boots that he oft cowered at.

"Why yes, yes, Master. I n-never doubted you," Pettigrew faltered, hoping his master could not smell the fear the was so vastly leaking from his rat like features. Voldemort kicked Peter up with one swipe of a superbly shined boot, and laughed as his servant did a comical flip in the air and landed on his face with a thud.

"Did I ever say you doubted me, Peter?" he sneered exiting the room to resume torturing some other poor soul, no doubt.

Peter really didn't like how testy Voldemort was now that the last Horcrux had become missing. He didn't appreciate the foul treatment, but he thought that at least after tonight, after torturing other death eaters, that Voldemort might be more lax. Peter scuttled around the floor nervously swiping the remains of his dinner into a pile with digits from a transparent looking ghostly hand.

Hands can tell one a lot about others when first meeting them. For example a hand with fat fingers doused in baubles, and gems might belong to a person some-what weight challenged with some sort of fascination with precious gems. As soon as the person connected to the hand makes you kiss it, however, one knows that ones first impression was drastically wrong, and that this person can now be known to have a true presumptuous nature, especially if said person is just your local garbage person.

The first impression that radiates off Peter Pettigrew's hand is also incredibly and thoroughly wrong. In the olden days when the only Order of Merlin First Class belonged to Merlin himself, and the world was over run by knights, princesses, dragons, muggles, and wizards alike an ancient ritual was used to restore the lost limbs of the bravest of wizards. The same procedure had gained Wormtail his ghostly hand, and only those that knew him knew that he had got it by groveling, sniveling, and furthermore brown-nosing to the most feared and powerful wizard in the current state of the world, not because he had sought to save muggles from a Norwegian Ridgeback.

As Wormtail grumbled about his ruined dinner that Voldemort had made him flip into, a knock came to the weathered door of the dark lord's residence.

"I'll be there in a second," Wormtail yelled scrapping faster at the tidbits on the grubby floorboards. As knocks became louder and more frequent, Wormtail shuffled to his feet, and waddled down the entry hall towards the door, grumbling all the way. "I'm on my bloody way!" he shouted, hoping that he would not later be punished for not opening the door promptly enough for Voldemort's visitors.

Peter struggled with the many locks and bolts that held the door closed, and undid the many enchantments as fast as his fumbling brain could process them. Finally he heaved open the door and tittered crankily, "Yes?" A tall hooded figure started at his sudden appearance, and slide his hood off a head crowned with shockingly flaming red hair.

Chapter 4 

Harry's ripped up and dilapidated trainers were running faster than they ever had before. With each block Harry kept cursing himself in his head.

_If only I had passed my apparation exam!_

_If only I had my broom stick with me! _

_I should have brought in case of emergency…_

_I should never have got my friends mixed up in this catastrophe I call my life. _

With a heart beating faster than a jack hammer, and legs that felt like they were fit to fall off, Harry stopped in front of a dumpy looking building.

Gasping breathes between every word, Harry gushed out the situation with Hermione, and how she had been harmed on confidential ministry business, and could they please hurry to help. The dummy in the window just seemed to stare at Harry with a look of incomprehension.

"Look, it's an emergency!" Harry said, feeling rather irritated that nothing was occurring. He double checked the sign on the building to make sure it was Purge and Dowse Limited, and then stared dumbly at the mannequin. It stared back at him just as dumbly.

"It's obvious that St. Mungo's has decided to be a pain in the ass, so what am I supposed to do?" he turned around and enquired angrily of a nearby fire hydrant. "Hmm? I just can't stand here bumbling like an idiot!" The fire hydrant just smirked at him unhelpfully, and then nearly broke Harry's toe as he kicked it out of frustration. With a heavy heart and a thumping toe Harry started making his way back to Hogsmede where he had left his two friends alone. He pulled a small silver mirror out of his pocket and moaned into it that St. Mungo's was not helping him, and that Ron should get Hermione to the quickest safe spot, which was Hogwarts. Ron's head nodded grimly back to Harry, and told Harry to hurry back to the school, and to be careful. Harry just nodded tiredly, and slipped the mirror back into his robes hastily. He was so tired of people guarding him, and watching him, and reprimanding him when he went out alone. _I'm a big kid now, _Harry thought angrily. _I can take care of myself!_

Many children have come to the conclusion in their youth, that they are right and adults are wrong. These same children grow up to become adults, who think they are right always, and others are wrong always. Of course this is a foolish idea because if everyone was always right, then no one would ever be wrong, and if no one was ever wrong, then there would be no need for the words right, and wrong, and Jeopardy would be far less entertaining then it is.

So Harry, like many people, was under the wrong impression, that he was right, and Ron was wrong. Though Ron was right and Harry was wrong, and Harry thinking wrongfully that Ron was wrong, leads to nothing right. 

For as Harry made his way back to the castle, and unwanted house guest was slowly making it's way up the leg of his trousers.

Ron slipped his half of the two way mirrors into a pocket of the black robes he was still wearing. Sighing heavily he gazed at the woman on the ground near by to him. Her beautiful hazel eyes were shut lightly and her breast rose and fell to the rhythm of her breathing. Ron had conjured some bandages to wrap around her chest to stem the bleeding, but she still needed to see a proper medically trained person very soon. Ron conjured a stretcher and lifted her up on top of it.

Hogwarts still had the same effect of looking so impending and extreme from the top of it's hillside home. Like a vigilant soldier staying up the night on a long hour shift. Always watching, always dependable, always there. Always there that is until it was closed 7th year, and all the students sent back to their homes. Now it was a victim, rehabilitation, and therapy center for victims of Voldemort and the their families. Ron shivered at the sight of the shell of his old school. It seemed like a chicken pot pie without the filling. Without the first years basking in the warm Saturday morning sun, or the fifth years making fun of the first years while dunking their feet into the freezing water of the lake, or even the people locked up in their common rooms droopy eyed and frazzled looking trying to catch up on last weeks homework, Hogwarts was just simply not the same. _Nor will it ever be until that bastard is taken out, _Ron thought bitterly as he watched his friend, his love, a victim, hover to the entrance of his school, also a victim in it's own sense.

"Now life will be hell on earth until…" Ron shuddered as he thought of the only plausible way to kill Voldemort right now. He decided to turn his attention to a particularly interesting tear in his shirt, as Professor McGonagall came rushing out of the schools entrance to start tittering about Hermione's condition.

"…really sending children such as yourselves out to do a mission with that level of risk, is simply preposterous. What has the ministry come down to these days? Scrimmagor is seriously deranged in the mind, and I've always said it. Power hungry. Crazed, he is. Sending children out to do an adults work… why he probably only wants to eliminate You-Know-Who because he wants to take over his post. _Tch tch tch_…"

Ron decided not to remind her on three different occasions that they were of age and perfectly capable of fighting the dark lord since they, and Harry had been faced with him almost every year of their lives at Hogwarts. He instead abandoned the tear in his shirt to place his attentions on a far more lovely thing, at least to him. Hermione looked so graceful and distinguished and strong even at a weak moment like this. She had stirred a bit, but was still sleeping peacefully. But at the moment all three of the trio might as well have been sleeping peacefully, for they were so blind to the sinister patchwork of things connecting together around them, and I do not mean the evils of quilting.


End file.
